Homesick
by Illusionna
Summary: A drabble about Xever based on this beautiful picture by painterbrush-turt on dA: /d8okn5z


He gazed up at the darkened room, warped and wavy from the water above his head. There was no one in it, not a soul on this level of the building. Only him, and the piranha around him, elongated disks squashed flat by evolution, teeth bulging out of mouths that could barely close.

Much like his.

Gratitude was something that Xever was driven to cultivate. Upbringing was an awful thing, he'd mused once. His own in Brazil, with a young, unwed mother, filled with stigma and Roman Catholic Mass. It still haunted him, as one's upbringing haunted everyone no matter who the person was. He had been a person once, and so even now in this form, gratitude crept into his two chambered heart.

The Shredder had saved him from a life in prison. He had asked nothing more of him that what he was already doing, steal what needed to be stolen, take out who needed to be taken out, persuade who needed to be persuaded, however they needed to be persuaded. His time he was not working was his, to do with what he pleased. He was rewarded handsomely for his successes. He had rarely failed, so his punishments had been few and far between. None of his punishments compared to being locked up in a Brazilian prison for the rest of his life. He could endure whatever The Shredder dished out at him.

But he did not know if he could endure this.

The Shredder had also saved him from drowning drowning in air, tinged with the smoke and smells of the city. He had not had to do it, just as he had not had to save him from a life in prison. He had built a tank of water, a huge tank of water, where he could swim, with ample room. Where he could breath, his gills working like lungs, the water flowing through them, thick and fluid. Not like air at all.

He darted through the water, the instinct to move was so great he couldn't stop it. The water flowed over his scales like a tongue over skin. He'd been skinny dipping more than once, but his attention had usually been on his companion's body, and not on his own. Looking at her, whoever she happened to be at the time, was much more enjoyable than paying attention to the feel of water on his naked skin. He wished now he'd paid more attention. He could only remember the smoothness of it, like something with no imperfections rubbing against him in a sheet that embraced his entire body, making his lady's body all the more beautiful. Now, the water licked at him, each scale feeling it separately. Though the touch was a soft one, it was not the silk of the touch he'd had when he was human.

He looked up through the glass again, and could see the wavy twinkling of stars that shone through the glass part of the roof, through the glass that held the water that held him. Everyone else in The Foot Clan was downstairs, in their bedrooms or barracks. He was here, in the throne room, looking at the stars.

On nights when he couldn't sleep, like this one, he would usually go out into the city, to Little Brazil in Manhattan, alive at all hours of the day and night, just like back home. He would speak Portuguese the entire night, never a word of English. It reminded him of home, in a way, a feeling of nostalgia would come over him, with the smells and sounds. He'd find one of his pretty ladies, Eduarda, Marianne, Luiza, Emanuelly, or maybe try his hand at a new one. He was rarely turned down. Why should he be? He was handsome, smart, he had money to spend, and a rod in his pocket to fish with.

He had been handsome. He had been smart. He used to have a rod in his pocket, now his rod was a pocket. He'd be doing no fishing with it at all, unless it was with one of these piranha that surrounded him. Despite being a fish himself, he had no desire to find out what any kind of seafood tasted like in any place other than his mouth.

He missed the feel of the air, the hot, sticky stuff that filled Little Brazil, that pressed on his skin, engulfed his nostrils. It caressed him, the way he caressed his lovers, the way they caressed him. He had not noticed it before he had been cursed down here, alone, trapped in a substance that licked at him like a dog licked at its skin, with each scale feeling something individually, as if he were made of a thousand little parts, and not one entire being.

He had always thought of homesickness as a longing for Brazil, for the thrill of the pickpocketing, for the kisses of his mother, for the pat on the head of the priest. He had always thought LIttle Brazil in Manhattan was a small mirage of that, feeding the hunger of home with women, food, and revelry.

He had never thought of homesickness as longing for the company of any member of The Foot Clan would give it to him. He'd even take Bradford. He never thought of homesickness as longing for the sounds of voices unhindered by the thick friction of liquid. The swish of the water was deafening, the growly voice of the mutated dog mocking him would be better than this. He had never thought of homesickness as longing for a bed, a real bed, to sleep in, even alone. The large alcove that had been placed in the tank as his 'bedroom' was an empty space where he floated when the fish approximation of sleep.

He had never thought of homesickness as looking through a glass, and longing for feel, not the breath, of air.


End file.
